


minimalism

by cygnes



Category: Nightcrawler (2014), Velvet Buzzsaw (2019)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: Louis Bloom is perhaps a bit of a narcissist. Morf Vandewalt would at least like to think that his own interest is confined to the aesthetic value of symmetry.





	minimalism

**Author's Note:**

> I can never resist a good doppelbang. Content warning for implications of violence and general weirdness (as you might guess, given canon content). Set vaguely in 2017: after the events of _Nightcrawler_ , before the events of _Velvet Buzzsaw_ , and when Crossfit was still more en vogue than Peloton.

It begins, as so many ill-fated assignations do, at a gallery opening. The art is recycled, and not in the on-trend found object sense. It owes too much to too few influences. Morf is already composing a dismissive write-up. Not one that will doom anyone’s career—nothing so scathing. Just something that will make this particular show less profitable than the owners probably bet on. It’s a learning opportunity for them, and for the artist.

(The artist: a quietly frantic young man who goes by his initials rather than his name, who always seems to be looking sideways over his interlocutor’s shoulder, or backward over his own; this is a curiosity, an eccentricity, but nothing really worrying or interesting.)

Morf takes a sip of naturally carbonated mineral water. He’ll be expected to mingle, but if he keeps his mouth half-full, maybe no one will actually start a conversation. He scans the crowd. There’s Gretchen, conversing with one of the gallery owners, wearing the rictus smile that hardens on her face when she’s trying not to sneer; there’s one of Rhodora’s protegés, earnestly frowning at one of the larger pieces. The artist himself is nowhere to be seen.

No, another glance finds him backed into an alcove, shrinking away from another man standing very close to him. That won’t do at all. There should be a gallery representative shepherding him through the night. No artist, however obviously influenced by Man Ray, should be thrown to the wolves at the opening of his first major gallery show. Morf shoulders his way through the crowd until he’s next to the pair.

“Excuse me,” he says to them. The artist locks eyes with him but says nothing. His companion turns, and—

The effect is strange and immediate. Not so much like looking in a mirror as like… looking at a stylized portrait. The gauntness could be El Greco. But instead of saintly melancholy in his eyes, there’s a focused intensity better suited to some stalking predator in a nature documentary, or maybe Tod Browning’s early _Dracula_ adaptation. He’s more interesting than the art _or_ the artist.

“Hello,” the man says. He doesn’t move from where he’s caging in the artist with his body.

“It’s not fair to the rest of us if you monopolize PB all night,” Morf says. He has mentally started referring to the artist as ‘peanut butter,’ which might be unprofessional, but really, he brought it on himself.

“Who said anything about being fair?” the man says.

“Sorry,” the artist says, edging sideways with his back against the wall, “I should take a sec and talk to, um…” He doesn’t bother finishing his excuse when he realizes that he’s not the object of anyone’s attention anymore. He slips off toward the bar, probably to down a shot or two of the Swedish vodka they’re serving. It doesn’t taste like anything at all, not even water. It’s exquisite. That’s why Morf has switched to mineral water. Too much of something wonderful makes it less so.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the man says.

“Nice isn’t what I’m known for,” Morf says.

“Should I know you?” the man says.

“Morf Vandewalt,” Morf says.

“Louis Bloom,” the man, Louis, says. “Lou, if you want.” He leans in slightly, tilts his head just a fraction of a degree. “What’s Morf short for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The joke in college was that it’s short for ‘morphine’,” Morf says. It’s not a real answer, but the construction of the self for public consumption is not something he knows Louis well enough to discuss. “Have you really not heard of me?”

“No,” Louis says. “And I guess you haven’t heard of me. We must be in different lines of work.” He produces a business card. Morf takes it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Video Production News: founder, president, CEO.

“Ah,” Morf says. “A… journalist? Cinematographer?”

“Something like that,” Louis says. “I’m known in the industry for my dedication and tenacity. What are you known for, Morf?”

“The way I see,” Morf says. Louis smiles with teeth, a long white slash in his face. He nods as if in agreement. “The way I express that vision.”

“I thought I recognized a kindred spirit,” Louis says, as though he’d had his eye on Morf all evening. As though he hadn’t just cornered PB and looked at him like a particularly well-plated example of farm-to-table cuisine.

“The spirit?” Morf says. “Is that what caught your attention?”

“Oh, yes,” Louis says through his smile. “After the face, it was the first thing I noticed. How old are you?” It’s been a long time since a man asked Morf that question like it mattered.

“Thirty-six. Why?”

“I’m thirty-eight. I thought you might be younger than me, but I wanted to be sure. It could also have been that you moisturize consistently. I didn’t used to,” Louis says. “Though it hasn’t been a problem for me, personally. Some people find a more weather-beaten look quite attractive.” Louis is not _un_ attractive, though to think so feels self-serving, given the obvious resemblance between them. He fits in well enough until you look closely. Like everyone else, he’s dressed for the air conditioning rather than the weather. A turtleneck under a leather jacket is hardly groundbreaking, but it’s still a safe bet.

“What brought you here?” Morf says. What he means is ‘why were you invited?’ but Louis misses the subtext. Or ignores it.

“My business has been my entire life the past few years. It still requires most of my time and attention, but a self-motivated enterprise is like a child. When it’s old enough, stable enough, you can delegate some of the responsibility to other people.” Morf would bet that Louis has very little experience with children. “These days I’m making an effort to cultivate other interests. Man cannot live on bread alone. Or film, as the case may be.” He doesn’t step forward, hardly even leans in, but he shifts his weight in such a way that Morf almost steps back without thinking. “Do you want to get out of here? There’s a new bar just a block away. I’ve heard their shrubs are very good.”

“No, I’m fine right here,” Morf says, though in truth he has wanted to leave almost since he arrived.

“No?” Louis says. Something about his expression has turned brittle. He’s not used to being refused. And Morf doesn’t want to refuse him, either—not really. Not all the way. But he doesn’t want to leave with him. He can’t imagine that version of tonight ending well.

“If you want to talk privately, there’s the office,” Morf says. “I know the owners. They’ll let me in.” With the understanding that his review will be neutral, at worst. An implied promise he’d rather not make.

“There’s always the bathroom,” Louis says. “If it’s going to be a quick conversation.” Fair point to him: the bathroom is single-occupant, gender neutral. The door locks quite securely.

“We’ll have to keep our voices down,” Morf says. “It’s no place for a shouting match.” He turns and weaves his way through the crowd, trusting Louis to follow. He doesn’t look back until he’s opening the door to the bathroom, and even then, it’s barely necessary. Louis is very close behind him. Almost touching.

And then the door is closed and they _are_ touching. Morf finds himself pressed back against the door with Louis’s hand over his mouth, and shoves him back. He’s reassured to find that it isn’t too difficult. Louis is wiry, but Morf has been doing Pilates for over a decade. And, while he gave up parkour some time ago, he’s getting into Crossfit now. He has the advantage of strength.

He is aware that may be his only advantage.

“I thought that was what you meant,” Louis says. He’s not smiling now. “About being quiet.”

“I just meant that it echoes in here,” Morf says, “and it’s not soundproof.” The walls are poured concrete, sealed against water but otherwise unadorned. The fixtures are stainless steel with exposed pipes. Industrial is never quite out of fashion, which means it’s never quite in fashion. Louis starts to close the distance between them again, and Morf holds up a hand. “No, let’s—”

The hard, empty look is back in Louis’s eyes. He doesn’t like refusal, and he doesn’t seem much happier about redirecting toward a compromise that’s not on his terms. But Morf is good at seeing how things fit together. Where individual works fit in an artist’s oeuvre. It’s part of what makes him a good critic. It’s most of what makes him sure he can keep Louis manageable.

“You’re here to develop your eye,” Morf says. “Right? It’s not about work, but it is, too. Everything’s about work. When you dedicate yourself to something so completely, you can’t turn it off. I know I can’t.” It’s why Morf has trouble enjoying ordinary moments sometimes; why he resorts to absolutely stupid things like being alone with a dangerous and eerily familiar man. He could be out there drinking Swedish vodka and commiserating with Gretchen, but he’d be bored by the familiarity. Nothing about Louis is familiar, beneath the surface.

“Yes,” Louis agrees.

“So we could—watch each other,” Morf says. He swallows and hears his throat click. He wants this.

“That’s good,” Louis says as he unbuckles his belt. “That’s smart. Practical, under the circumstances.” His gaze is steady, unblinking, as Morf follows suit. “Of course, if we’d left, there would have been more opportunities. It’s all about leverage.”

Morf doesn’t know what the fuck that means and doesn’t want to think about it too hard.

“Someone would have noticed,” he says. He unzips his fly, pushes his pants to halfway down his thighs, and leans back against the door. “I would have been missed.” It says something deeply unflattering that Morf’s growing sense that Louis might have hurt him, or worse, is doing nothing to decrease his arousal. He palms himself through his underwear and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. Baring his neck for just a moment before looking over at Louis, who has braced his lower back against the lip of the sink. This is not a bathroom built to accommodate short people or really anyone who values comfort and functionality. Of course not: this is LA. This is the art scene. This is the art scene in LA.

“What do you usually think about?” Louis says. His pants are still mostly pulled up, underwear hitched down just enough that he can get at his cock. Morf is not thinking very coherently, but he is wondering how alike they are in this respect. Sure, he’s fucked people—and been fucked by people—in front of mirrors. He knows what his cock looks like from more than one angle. But it’s hard to know what he’d look like from across this little concrete box of a room, to know what Louis is seeing…

Or will be seeing. Morf’s falling behind, which won’t do. He pulls his shirttails up, eases his underwear down, and tries to make a good show of it.

“I don’t think about anything,” Louis says. “I’m told most people do.”

“You’re not thinking about me right now?” Morf says.

“I’m watching you,” Louis says. “You’re right here. You’re not an image in my head.” He strokes himself slowly. Like he’s waiting for something.

“Everything you see is a vision in your head,” Morf says, and has to catch his breath. “Synapses firing. Whether the information’s coming from your optic nerve or your memory.” He twists his wrist on the upstroke and bites down hard on his lip. He knows what he likes, and now Louis does, too, which is thrilling. Maybe more so because he doesn’t plan to let Louis touch him again. Louis will never get to put that knowledge to use unless he gives in and decides to think about something when he jerks off.

Morf is going to think about it, but only abstractly. The idea of the encounter rather than the reality of it. In the present moment, Louis’s unwavering attention is oppressive. He looks away.

“Are your glasses real?” Louis says.

“Why, do you want to come on them?” Morf says. It would normally be an arch comment, deliberately bored; a reminder that yes, he has been with exactly that type of person, and finds it tiresome. Here and now, it sounds like a real offer.

“Not now,” Louis says. “Some other time. After you’ve gotten on your knees for me.”

“You’re—” Morf has to stop, catch his breath again. “You’re assuming a lot.”

“Extrapolating,” Louis says. Morf is gratified to hear the strain in his voice, and looks back at him. Posture softening, resting most of his weight against the sink behind him. The steadiest thing about him is still his gaze. “Based on current evidence. You like this. You’d like it if it happened again.”

“Maybe,” Morf says, and almost laughs. The part of _this_ that he likes most isn’t specific to Louis.

They stop talking for a while after that. There are other things to focus on. Louis comes with a little choked sound in his throat, and that’s what brings Morf over the edge. He squeezes his eyes shut again. He can still feel the weight of Louis’s eyes on him.

Louis washes his hands. Morf washes his hands, and Louis stands close behind him again. Not touching, but near enough that Morf might brush against him by accident if he’s not careful. So Morf is careful.

“We shouldn’t leave at the same time,” he says. “I’ll go first.”

“Wait for me,” Louis says. Morf shrugs. Louis repeats: “Wait for me.”

“Fine, Jesus. I’ll meet you by the bar,” Morf says.

He doesn’t wait, of course. He leaves immediately. Louis has his name, could track him down pretty easily if he really wanted to, but Morf’s not going to offer himself up on a silver platter. He’s sure as hell not going to have a drink with the man. He nods at one of the gallery owners as he passes by, brushes off the leading comment about advance warning (requested, as always, with a smile). He’ll throw out the business card when he gets home, or maybe—

Maybe he’ll keep it. Just in case they meet again. In case something happens.


End file.
